


Insistent

by LaughableLament



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: spn-masquerade, Episode: s01e13 Route 666, Episode: s01e17 Hell House, Episode: s01e18 Something Wicked, M/M, Masturbation, Pre-Slash, Season/Series 01, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 11:50:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6373627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sammy never did go much for subtle, not once he set his mind on something. Too bad for Dean, Sam's mind is on him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Insistent

“Nice lollipop, Kojak.” _Jesus Christ, Sam, is that supposed to be smooth?_

Sam crosses the truck stop lot, mouth curled around a cherry Tootsie pop.

“You want one?” White stick bobs between his lips.

“Uh, no. I’m good. Thanks.” Freak.

Gravel crunches and sunset blazes. Sam goes to town on his sucker. Runs his tongue around, makes these slick, smacking sounds.

“You two need some privacy?”

“Huh?” Sam’s head snaps left. _Who, me?_ Mouth wet and open, red candy bulb drags down his bottom lip.

“Never mind.” Glance back. Sam slumps in the seat, long legs spread. Fingers drum inside his thigh. He shifts. Drifts higher.

_Eyes on the road, Winchester._

Kid’s not thinking straight. Not sleeping enough. Not eating enough. Not…

Twin Oaks Lodge. Sammy’s shirtless in point-four seconds, marches straight for the bathroom. Stops, strips off his pants. Doesn’t drop em like a normal person, no. He guides them down. Wiggles. Wash-worn tighty whiteys stretch all snug across his…

“I’m going out.” Good night for a walk.

Sam’s eyes in the mirror, ice.

“You could come.”

Sam’s forehead folds under his bangs, hands rub his bare arms. “How bout I meet you?”

Blink. “Yeah? Cool, man! Okay!”

Little brotherly bonding time, just what the doc ordered. Point the kid at a nice pair of titties and put this _Flowers in the Attic_ shit in the rearview. Maybe a pair of chicks, except… Bar’s weeknight slow. Two dozen wings and a pitcher, baseball on a big old-school projection set. Sam rolls in, wet-haired, just ahead of the wings. He drags a barstool close, knocks knees and brushes shoulders.

“Blue cheese?”

“Ranch.”

“Dammit, Dean.”

“Sorry, man. I forgot you’re into fungus.”

“You eat mushrooms. And anyway, it’s a—”

“Not the same—Hi, uh, excuse me, sweetheart? Can we get some blue cheese over here? Thanks.” Wink.

“And extra celery.”

“You wanna carrot with that while you’re at it there, Bugs?”

All night with the manhandling. Gonna have bruises. Elbows, knees, ribs. Sam’s fuckin pinchy when he’s drunk. Won fifty bucks though, coupla idiots thought they could play darts.

Hard to say who’s holding up who while they grope for a room key.

“Know you got one.” Sam pokes and squeezes. “Saw you take it.”

“And I’d have it by now if you’d reel in your tentacles.”

“Sor-ry.” Sam slumps.

Key. Twist. _Shit!_ Sam was leanin against that door. Tumble. Sam flails. Try to save it, stabilize it, help him get his feet underneath him.

Crash.

Crack up. Kick closed the door before cops get called and laugh sloppy into Sam’s chest. He moans. Body rolls and—

“Ow! What the fuck?” Look up. Sam’s hair rings his face like a canopy. Eyes puffy and dark. “Sammy?”

“You really think I was gonna stay here and let you slink off to fuck some chick?”

“Let me?” Too close. Sam’s hands. Can’t—

“Cassie was one thing. Because. You two have a history.” Callused thumb rasps over stubble. “And I thought, if she could make you…” Forehead to forehead. “But.”

Sam’s meathooks get to work on buttons. Feeble shoves at his shoulders. “Sammy.” Ohhh, shit Sam’s tongue, slips insistent against— “Sammy, stop!”

He sits back. Scowls. “What’s your problem?”

“What’s my—?”

“Why are you fighting this?”

Teeth snap.

“Look. I get it. You keep thinking I’ll just, outgr—”

“You did!”

“Apparently not.” Sam’s hard. Demanding.

“What if I… What if I promise to talk about it?”

Snort.

“When we’re not drunk. You tell me what’s in that oversized melon of yours and I’ll—”

“Shoot me down again?” Sam sprawls across the far bed.

“Sam.”

“Just forget it, Dean. Message received.”

**

Take it out on each other in itching powder and super glue. Try not to miss the gratuitous contact. Partners. Professionals, more or less.

“Because you’re a bad person.”

“I dare you to take a swig of this.”

Sam, still walks around half naked half the time. Sucks lollipops. Makes a new art of the cock-block. And all the while defends his space. Won’t share the bathroom for tooth-brushing. Skips crossing ankles at diner tables.

Stretch across the seat, knees bent, drift mellow in between awake and asleep. Ears on Sam. Seat creaks, pops. Just shifti–clink. Belt? Buckle? _Shit._

Zip. Sam’s honed subtle on a lifetime of shared space. Quiet. Unmistakable though. Uneven breathing, skin sounds. Hard in a flash.

“That lady cop, in Hibbing? Would’ve fucked you.”

“Sam.”

“She wanted to. Probably would’ve sat on your face, made you get her off—”

Door handle. Head and shoulders hit the dirt. Scramble. Crabwalk back into a tree. Don’t watch.

_Don’t come a-knockin…_

List the World Series winners for the past twenty years. Take a mental inventory of the trunk. Add up the miles since Sam came back. Creep toward the car. Sam’s eyes snap up.

Sigh. “You ready to talk about this yet?” Settle in, back propped on the passenger door.

“You ready to come in your pants yet?”

Bastard child of a laugh and a groan.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’” Sam sits up, elbows hooked on the seat back. “Look, Dean.”

_Innn three, two..._

Puppy eyes. “I understand, if you need more time. I’ll be patient. But until then—”

This can _not_ go anywhere good.

“—those women can’t have you. They don’t know you, and they don’t deserve you.”

“Sammy.”

“Don’t ‘Sammy’ me.” He flops back, refolds his jacket pillow and crosses his arms. Dick’s tucked in but his belt buckle gleams, open. Come smell.

No sense tryin to sleep any more tonight. Fire up the motor.

Hit Louisiana ahead of solstice, lay some counterspells. Flip a bitch and point north, Dad’s orders.

“Think he’ll meet us there?”

“I dunno.” Not fuckin likely.

You’d think they were hunting Oprah’s Book Club, all the sharing and caring on this fucking case. Relearn the distance four years makes. Sam starts touching again. And then…

Overgrown ape that he is, Sam still looks tiny, swallowed up in ragged black.

“Hey!” Ears ring. Goddamn right consecrated iron works.

Tuck Michael in.

Torch the corpse.

Sam shivers, hollow-cheeked.

“Hey. Why don’t you head to the car? Catch a wink?”

“Thank you.” Sam snags keys out of the air. Picture him curled under a thin blanket, drained. Had a lot to take in, the last few days. Add a nightmare, a vision…

_Watch out for Sammy._

Let him sleep the whole way back to town. Motel. Sky edges pink. “Hey. Showers, breakfast, bed. Eh?”

Scruffy head pops into the rearview. “I’m gonna skip the first two. I’m just…”

“’S cool, bro. I’ll wake you for checkout.”

Probably the sweetest note of any hunt right here. Hot water, shitty soap. Smoke and shtriga stink swirl down the drain. Stomach growls. More immediate need in adrenaline-hangover-hardon, trying to rise above its sideline status from the last coupla weeks. Ain’t even managed this without Sam outside loudly reciting the places of pi or some shit.

Ah, but fuck it feels good, slick soapy finger stripes all up his length. Better if it _was_ Sam, pressed behind him, jerking arms and hips rubbin off in the suds. No way he stays gentle. Be in a hurry to empty out the fuckin blue balls he’s respons—

Stop. Stop.

_Why are you fighting this?_

Who’s fuckin fighting? Clearly not the guy with his dick in his hand and his brother’s name…

Either way. This ain’t right.

Cold water, scratchy towel. Pad out to the bedroom. Cracked-open curtains. Column of light falls across bare, hair-dusted skin. Sam’s kicked the covers off, twisted his shirt up. Hipbone casts a mountain’s shadow. Rise and fall.

Climb in half hard and naked. Sam jolts.

“Sh.” Pet his hair. Kiss the nape of his neck. “We got plenty of time.”

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted from [Supernatural Masquerade](http://spn-masquerade.livejournal.com/7665.html?thread=2521841#t2521841) Round 4.


End file.
